Читать книгу Поэзия Древнего Египта - Гена Чер - Страница 56

The brook of river gets a rosy child to play.

Relentless time goes by…

The river runs the old man, quite gray,

To the waterfall to die.

The young are afraid of shame

While the old fear death.

There are no aims in this game,

It is just Nature’s breath.